


She'll Bear My Mark

by spikes_heart



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-15
Updated: 2013-01-15
Packaged: 2017-11-25 13:52:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/639542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikes_heart/pseuds/spikes_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike places his mark on the Slayer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	She'll Bear My Mark

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [](<a%20href=)

Spike gathers his supplies and climbs down the ladder with care, unwilling to drop anything. Tonight is special. Buffy’s finally agreed to let him mark her as he chooses. True, it won’t be permanent. She’ll only allow body paint instead of a real inking, but it’ll do. For now.

She’s promised not to move; her only restraints are her given words. And given freely from Slayer to Vampire, they’re as good as gold.

Buffy lies on his bed belly down; her naked body his canvas. Spike quickly strips and joins her, settling in between her splayed legs. Paints and brushes forgotten for the moment, Spike strokes the pads of his fingers lightly over her arms, positioning them over her head, gently encouraging her hands to grasp the headboard in imitation of other games they’ve played. She does so, willing and mute.

Encouraged by her pliant behavior, Spike trails his fingers once more over her body, starting with her shoulders. Moving over her silken flanks, he sees the effort it takes her not to giggle from his feather-light touch. His Slayer is most ticklish but he doesn’t spare an inch of her skin. His fingers bump gently over her ribs, down the curve and swell of her buttocks and the expanse of her outer thighs. The upwards journey tests her resolve to remain still and silent, and Spike is almost undone by the warmth and quivers he feels.

When he finishes mapping each succulent inch, Buffy’s breaths are regular and even and her heart beats a gentle tattoo in his ears. She’s asleep; more relaxed than she’s been in months.

Spike reaches over the slope of her behind for a fine sable-haired brush and the pot of white paint sitting on the table next to the bed, and begins his masterpiece.


End file.
